'Oh, may's well, I s'pose.'
'Chuck on your cap, then. It's two to one, Beetle. Hout you come!'
They saw a group of boys by the notice-board in the corridor; little Foxy, the school sergeant, among them.
'More bounds, I expect,' said Stalky. 'Hullo, Foxibus, who are you in mournin' for?' There was a broad band of crape round Foxy's arm.
'He was in my old regiment,' said Foxy, jerking his head towards the notices, where a newspaper cutting was thumb-tacked between call-over lists.
'By gum!' quoth Stalky, uncovering as he read. 'It's old Duncan—Fat-Sow Duncan—killed on duty at something or other Kotal. "Rallyin' his men with conspicuous gallantry." He would, of course. "The body was recovered." That's all right. They cut 'em up sometimes, don't they, Foxy?'
'Horrid,' said the sergeant briefly.
'Poor old Fat-Sow! I was a fag when he left. How many does that make to us, Foxy?'
'Mr. Duncan, he is the ninth. He came here when he was no bigger than little Grey tertius. My old regiment, too. Yiss, nine to us, Mr. Corkran, up to date.'
The boys went out into the wet, walking swiftly.
' 'Wonder how it feels—to be shot and all that,' said Stalky, as they splashed down a lane. 'Where did it happen, Beetle?'
'Oh, out in India somewhere. We're always rowin' there. But look here, Stalky, what is the
